Morning  

I’m ten, and in the time it takes for the sun to show its face, my eyes open—slowly taking in the landscape of my room. Daydreams begin to take over where last night’s dreams left off and my gaze meanders from wall to ceiling and down the next wall. I study the patterns of woodgrain on the back of my door as though they are cloud formations, I am disappointed that I find the same image every morning. It’s a rabbit—sort of like Harvey, but visible. I focus on every aberration in the paint and plaster and come to rest blankly on the ceiling light fixture. It’s a square dish with a shiny silver nut that holds it in place; flowers and ribbons are etched around the edges of its frosted glass surface. “Doesn’t really fit a boy’s bedroom,” I mouth silently, “better in a funeral home.” Ironically, lying inside it in a blanket of dust are the remains of two bugs, who will remain there until a bulb needs replacing. 

Little by little, our house begins to fill with the sounds of morning. Mom’s slippers make a sandy scratch as she shuffles like a somnambulist to the fridge and gurgles a splash of milk into her glass. She coughs, clears her throat then pulls the rubber band from The Tribune, making it strum like a paper banjo. The chair legs rumble across the linoleum as she settles into her routine. The pop! hiss! of a match ignites her first cigarette of the day. 

From the far end of the house, my brother’s bedroom door joins in with a clack of its latch and the creak of its hinges. In the kitchen, the magnets of the cupboard door snap open and shut. The sticky seal of the refrigerator door peels apart —releasing a chill into the air. Lucky Charms tinkle as they tumble into David’s cereal bowl. Clink, clink. Cough, cough. 

It is morning on Pueblo Street. 

***

Forty years later, still there—but in a different bed, different walls, different home. The daydreams are the same, though. I still scan my room each morning; drawn to the spot on the ceiling where the paint roller missed. A picture on the wall that for some reason refuses to stay straight. Dusty crevasses in the clock radio. I take in the details of my room. But now, I don’t imagine them as other things; I don’t even see them for what they are. I  just stare through catatonic eyes and listen for the sounds of morning. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. 

The only sound is the clock on the kitchen wall. 

Wrapped in a tangle of sheets and blankets, my fetal position coils tighter. I adjust my pillow and wonder why I still wake up alone. Where is the sound of someone coughing? Why isn’t someone clattering in my kitchen? I want desperately to hear these sounds; but at this point in my life, I have to make them myself, which means getting out of bed where the sounds are most comforting. Most familiar.

My mind drifts further. It dawns on me that the morning sounds of my childhood contained no conversation. No “good morning,” no “what’s up for today?” There was always a deafening silence at our breakfast table; yet very little peace. 

I reluctantly roll out of bed and fumble to the CD rack where Billie Holliday is ready and waiting. The clatter of the coffee grinder jolts my consciousness into place. The air is filled with a duet—Mr. Coffee and Lady Day.  The duet  becomes a combo as I twang the rubber band from The Tribune. I flip it across the room; sending the wild-eyed cat on a frenzied chase—his claws skitter across the hardwood floor.

***

Three hundred miles and many mornings down the road, I find myself in the guest bedroom of my parents’ desert home. I awaken to the familiar sounds of Mom. The shuffle, the cough, and the splashing of milk are all the same. She slides open the screen door. It rattles and skids as though it’s aluminum joints are not yet ready for morning. Stepping onto the deck, she lights her morning cigarette. It will be an hour or so before the morning paper arrives. 

I don’t wallow in bed much anymore. You miss a lot in the confines of an empty bedroom. I throw off the covers, pull on some pants, and step outside with my cup of coffee. The night’s rain has left a puddle on each of the patio chairs, so I lean against a damp wooden railing. A lone grey cloud lingers over Red Mountain. I turn my face to the sunrise and take a swig of morning desert air and watch Mom as she walks out to the brush—flinging a can of birdseed into the clearing. She’s still in her bathrobe. Her slippers are rust-colored from her mornings in the sand. She’ll get dressed eventually. Mornings just last longer in the desert.

I slip a CD into the boom box. “Music Appreciation” has become one of our morning rituals. Barber’s Adagio for Strings leads off today’s playlist and makes us cry every time. Stillness is wonderful, but sensory overload is rapture. 

One by one—until they number in the dozens—Mom’s birds arrive to the swell of violins.  Doves, sparrows, finches, robins and the family of quail. Chirps, coos and the wafting of wings seem to say “Good morning” and “What’s up for today?” Mom laments about how the quail are disappearing lately—probably a neighbor’s cat. And she’s not going to plant a garden this year—no one ever eats the stuff. I tell her of my bad feet and panic attacks, and that my friends and I will all be down in a few weeks for our annual Easter Parade. 

As the music builds, the rabbits join in (they’re always there). They skitter in the dirt like Keystone Kops, then stop. 

Nose to nose. 

Frozen for a second. 

Then they spring so high they flail on the way down— barely sticking their landing. Balanchine bunnies. 

The CD ends. Mom takes a drag on her smoke and I sip my coffee as we take in the quiet—and the peace.